


Like Iron Ships

by KimChi



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dimension Travel, Episode tag s02e1, Evil Gerard, Master of Death, Multi, Tags May Change, tagging is hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-18 10:11:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2344616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KimChi/pseuds/KimChi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard was evil incarnate, Boyd had decided some time ago. Probably somewhere between being shot at by a brainwashed Allison and the whole electrocution thing.</p><p>The kid locked in the trunk didn't seem to mind, though. Maybe he'd been brainwashed too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Slave to Desperate Men

**Author's Note:**

> Title from poem "The Singer" by Anna Wickham.
> 
> I'm new at this, obviously. Any help/advice would be greatly appreciated.
> 
> I'm sure tags will change with the story, it could really go anywhere at this point. I've got a bit planned out, but somehow this crossover fandom isn't very popular and I want to change that.

Harry was terrified. He wanted to vomit, and only kept himself from doing so by reminding himself that if he threw up, he would then be covered in vomit and would have to sit, stewing in this tiny hellhole with the smell and feel of his vomit all over him and he would really not be able to handle that. Though he wasn’t sure it was possible to handle anything worse than he was already handling being locked in this tiny, _miniscule_ space. His breath wheezed noisily in and out of him, seeming impossibly loud in that small, silent space.

         After spending the better part of his childhood locked in a broom cupboard, Harry wanted to say he had adapted to being in small, dark, musty places, but this was a very different experience from his childhood bedroom. Here he couldn’t see anything, and all his muscles were cramping from being curled up, and his chest ached from being crushed against his knees.

         As best he could remember, Harry had been drifting off to the sound of Hermione and Ron snickering giddily as they felt each other up in the dark of Gryffindor Tower – the first moment of peace he could recall since before Bill and Fleur’s wedding in July.

And then suddenly he had been naked and cold and without his wand and people were chanting in words he couldn’t understand, and then something had been pressed against his flesh and it _burned_ , and then it began to hurt in other ways as well and then he had passed out because he was exhausted and in considerable pain.

And now he was in the trunk. At least he assumed it was a trunk. He had been terrified at first, believing himself to have been buried alive, but as time passed he could see a small sliver of light creeping in from a crack in the lid.

So far he had kept himself calm by singing songs in his head, remembering quidditch plays, talking himself through each step of every potion he knew, reciting detailed descriptions of wand movements for spells in transfiguration, then charms, then defense then moved on to tracking the streak of light coming from the crack as it slowly passed over his body and then vanished into the black.

But now it was night. The second night, he believed. He wasn’t too certain. All he could really focus on was how loud his breathing sounded, especially once he decided it really only sounded that loud when placed against a background of perfect silence.

There seemed to be no movement beyond his infinitesimal cell. Harry tried not to think of hunger, or cold, or suffocation, or dying of thirst, or the awful smell he was certain his urine would make if he hadn’t already been awfully dehydrated and unable to pee, and the more he focused on not thinking of any of these things the more difficult he was finding it to breathe.

Harry was busy wheezing away and subtly pressing against his confines despite earlier proof that he had no way out (magical or otherwise) when he finally heard something. It was a scrabbling, scratching noise, like a small animal, followed by a metallic thunk that echoed slightly.

 _A lock, that was a lock, someone was locking something he was being locked away and forgotten inside a house in his locked box –_ another rattling breath into the dank, chilly silence, and then – there was another noise. He jerked slightly at the sound of a door being thrown open.

Harry nearly sobbed in relief as he heard people enter. They were loud – their boots clunked noisily on creaking wood floors, they threw things around, they knocked over furniture. Initially it was all far-off sounding, like he was in a different room or on another floor, but the noises began to disperse, some getting louder and others quieter. They were searching the house.

He held his breath as he heard someone enter the room, moving much more stealthily than the others. Harry heard the unmistakable sound of glass popping underfoot and wondered when that sound had become so familiar. There was a pause, then a few more steps and the sound of someone shuffling through sheaves of paper. Another pause. Another creaking, crunching step, and then more silence.

Harry had a split second of indecision before thumping weakly on the lid of the trunk.

“Please,” he croaked out. “Please let me out.”

There was enough silence following his plea that he wondered if it had gone unheard, then – “Let me find the key.”

The voice sounded older, male, gravelly. American, he thought. Harry listened intently as there was more shuffling of papers, more searching through debris strewn about the room, groans and thumps from the rest of the house.

Suddenly there an impossibly loud scrape and click resounded in the small space, and the lid lifted. Harry squinted against the early morning light as he tried to make out the dark figure in front of him.

“Here, son. Come on out.” A rough, warm hand gripped his upper arm and Harry promptly recalled his nudity. He was too tired to feel embarrassed. He feebly attempted to aid the effort in getting him out of the trunk and he became weak with relief as he tipped out over the edge and was steadied.

Before Harry truly understood what was happening, a thin, cool chain looped around his throat, and he felt the sharp press of a knife into his palm. The man, old and balding with white hair, quickly slit the same, small dagger across his own palm and then brought their hands together. Clasped between their palms was a pendant, glistening silver around the edges of their clenched fingers. Harry felt a shiver run through him, and their joint hands glowed a misty white. He felt faint.

Harry glanced up at the man in confusion. The man’s eyes flashed, flinty and dark.

“You know,” he said casually, “The ones who initially called you to this mortal realm may be gone, but at least they left you with an instruction manual.”

The man let their hands fall apart, and the medallion dropped with a wet smack to settle against Harry’s bare stomach. He glanced down with a growing sense of horror. The necklace ended in the symbol of the deathly hallows.

“How intriguing.” The old man commented cheerfully. He smiled coldly down at Harry.

“Would you happen to know what benefits binding the Master of Death to oneself might entail?”

 

Harry hated himself for not wishing he were still back in the trunk.

 

o0O0o

 

         Harry’s mind felt numb as the man introduced himself as Gerard, then laid down his first edict. Harry didn’t think Gerard even realized what he was doing.

         “Don’t say anything. Follow my lead.” Gerard hefted a soft knit blanket from an armchair in the corner of the room and threw it around Harry’s shoulders.

         “There you go, son.” He smiled. Harry couldn’t move.

         Gerard turned to the desk and began gathering up the papers scattered there. “Wouldn’t want to forget this,” He smirked. Harry stared. Right. His ‘instruction manual’.

         Gerard slung an arm around Harry’s shoulders and began steering them down a shadowy hall that quickly led them to the front entrance of the house. Gerard whistled sharply, and all the people Harry had heard enter the house came thumping and tumbling down to the foyer like a pack of eager puppies. Harry swallowed as Gerard’s hand tightened on his shoulder and the minions – mostly large, troll-like men – glanced at Harry curiously and dismissively in turn.

         Gerard put on a serious, concerned face with an ease that made Harry want to flinch away.

         “I . . . I found him upstairs,” Gerard said, throwing a light waver in his voice. He covered his eyes with his free hand. “I know this boy’s parents. We were close, in fact . . .” Gerard cleared his throat and continued on stoically after ‘gathering himself’.

         “The coven must have known, taken him as leverage.” He squared his shoulders. “If there are no other reports, I say we take care of the house and then move on.” The men nodded stupidly and collected their equipment before shuffling out of the house, barely giving Harry even a cursory glance. He couldn’t decide whether they really cared so little, or if perhaps they were just especially dimwitted.

         Gerard took Harry outside, where dense forest stretched out around the house in every direction. Gerard herded Harry into one of the large, black SUVs that were parked outside. Harry silently acquiesced and climbed into the passenger seat.

         Gerard gave him another one of those slimy smiles and a pat on the knee before reaching past him to tug a duffle bag into the front of the car.

         “Here, son.” Gerard pulled out some clothes, which Harry shakily pulled on. They were too large, but the belt did its job well enough when hooked on the smallest loop. It wasn’t anything worse than Harry had dealt with the majority of his life thus far.

         Gerard had closed and locked the passenger side door, then gotten in to the driver’s seat and sat humming contentedly, his hands in his lap. They had been sitting there for nearly ten minutes when Harry heard a loud _whoosh_ that sounded an awful lot like the Room of Requirement going up in flames. He jerked around in his seat to see the house nearly explode into a great ball of fire. The minions from earlier were laughing raucously and throwing more gasoline into the fire, whooping when it caught.

         Harry turned to face Gerard, who still sat calmly in his seat, as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. Harry tried to say something to him, anything, but the second he so much as tried to open his mouth, his body just relaxed into his seat. Suddenly he was completely content to just sit calmly and quietly in his seat. It was what Gerard wanted, after all. He had said so. And all Harry really wanted was to do as Gerard wanted.

         In the back of his mind, Harry knew that wasn’t really what he wanted. He knew that something was very, _very_ wrong with his mind – it was like being put under the imperius curse, or perhaps more accurately the effects of veritaserum. Harry didn’t feel suddenly stupid or lightheaded, he could still reason. He could rationally think through and react to his surroundings, his thoughts – everything made perfect sense to him still, except for the fact that suddenly Gerard was very important to Harry, more so than his own life. He swallowed. Gerard seemed a very dangerous man to want to please.

         The flames eventually began to die down, and the oafish lackeys all piled back into their cars. Gerard reached over Harry and opened the glove box, taking out a granola bar and a bottle of water and tossing them in Harry’s lap. He started the car and began pulling away from the still smoking house.

         “There, boy. Eat. Drink. Get some rest. I’ll wake you when I need you.”

         Harry ate, drank, and rested.

 

o0O0o

 

        

         “Boy. Wake up. Up you get.”

         Harry awoke to a hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. He immediately sat up at attention. His eyes burned and his head ached and he felt dizzy with exhaustion, but somehow the only thing he wanted was to eagerly sit up and listen for Gerard’s next order.

         Gerard watched Harry’s face carefully for a few moments, but was apparently satisfied with what he saw there. “Come along, son.” He carefully Harry’s shoulder with one hand, as though he was afraid Harry might make a break for it. He’d be right, except for the fact that he had just told Harry to ‘come along’, and so that was the only thing Harry could possibly foresee doing. He shoved the blanket to the floor of the car and hopped out, only to have his knees buckle on the impact.

         “Easy there, son,” Gerard advised, so how could Harry do anything _but_ take a deep breath and try to stand up straight.

         “That’s a good boy.” Usually that sort of language would have set Harry’s teeth on edge, but from Gerard it somehow made him simultaneously want to come to heel and feel disgusted with himself.

         Gerard slid his arm to encircle Harry’s shoulders, and it still felt like more of a leash than anything, but Harry was grateful because it also served the dual purpose of holding him upright. If he wasn’t upright, he couldn’t do what Gerard wanted him to. He shuddered at that thought.

         Harry could barely keep his eyes open enough to watch his feet as they crossed the pavement, so he jolted slightly when Gerard stopped in front of a door, digging out a key from his jacket pocket. Harry glanced up and around as Gerard unlocked the door and realized they were at some sort of cheap apartment complex.

         “In you go,” Gerard said as he steered Harry in before him. The apartment was small and sparsely decorated. A little card table, a few folding chairs, a utilitarian twin bed in the corner. There seemed to be only two rooms, the kitchen and the main room, but Harry could see a little door that most likely led to a bathroom. It was all very pragmatic, serviceable. It wasn’t the type of place that someone lived in for very long by choice.

         Gerard kept a firm hand on his shoulder as he closed and locked the door behind him and dropped his ominously clanking duffle bag out of the way, to the left of the door. He flicked on the lights before turning back to Harry.

         Harry felt wary of the gaze directed at him. Gerard seemed to be fully inspecting him for the first time since they’d laid eyes on each other, though Harry couldn’t exactly account for the time he’d been asleep in the car, however long that had been. It had still been light out when they left the house, but it could have been anywhere from early morning to early afternoon for all he knew. It was dark now.

         Gerard seemed to be scrutinizing his physical state like one might some sort of show animal, like a dog or a horse or something. He peered into Harry’s myopic eyes, glanced up and down his somewhat less than standard height, gently squeezed Harry’s thinly muscled bicep and even went so far as to shove a few fingers in Harry’s mouth to feel at his too-sharp molars. Harry wanted to cringe away from the strange intrusion into his mouth, but somehow the urge quickly dissipated until he thought he might have been comfortable with Gerard shoving fingers all the way down his esophagus.

Gerard seemed to pick up on this lack of resistance. He took a step back after a moment, giving Harry a speculative look before grinning suddenly.

“Read this to me,” he commanded like a petulant child, snatching an open book up from the table without taking his eyes off Harry and holding it open. Harry felt a quick tug inside him, like Gerard had gripped the corner of his tightly bundled magic and tugged it free in one pull. Suddenly he could see the small print perfectly, and despite never having spoken much French beyond what he learned in elementary school, every word flowed as if he were a native. Gerard’s eyes lit up.

“In English,” He ordered joyfully. Again, the words’ meanings sprung forth in Harry’s mind, and mid-sentence he switched.

“German.” Harry didn’t even pause. 

“Latin,” it was even easier, considering Harry knew it already.

Gerard tilted his head back and laughed whole-heartedly. His face glowed with the excitement of a child.

“Stop, stop.” Gerard demanded joyfully. Harry’s jaw clamped shut with an audible click halfway through the word “exentera”, which he chose not to think to closely on.

         “Kneel.” Harry’s former disgust at any form of subservience was nonexistent and he fell to his knees.

         “Rise.” Harry did so.

         “Stand in the corner.”

         “Lie prone.”

         “Hold your breath. Breathe.”

         “Close your eyes.”

         Harry could feel Gerard’s sweet-smelling breath spill across his face in warm wafts as he stood too close. “Do something magical.”

         Again, that tug. Like Gerard had reached right into him and drawn from the spool of thread that was Harry’s magic. Harry raised a hand and without wand, without incantation, light spilled forth and prongs stood beneath his hand, warm and strong and reassuring. Gerard exhaled in a reverent sigh.

         “Oh, my beautiful boy. You marvelous creature.” Harry wanted to shudder, but the calm subservience that had overtaken him stopped it before it even started. “Look at me,” Gerard practically crooned. Harry opened his eyes.

         Gerard looked almost manic at the short distance, his eyes bulging out of his face.

         "Heal me."

 


	2. Send me back my heart and eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time skip!
> 
> Gerard has been using Harry to kill supernatural creatures for a while now, but there's something different about the job in Beacon Hills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, this has taken a while . . . I've had this idea in my head for a while now, and I want to make sure I get it right. 
> 
> Also, I'm the only one looking at this until it gets posted, so let me know if something doesn't make sense or seems funky.

Harry quietly observed the man from his perch in the tree. Gerard had "requested" that he follow him and report back his observations. Observations of _what_ exactly, he had no idea. He had been flying around the fucking forest all day long watching Mr. Creepy grunt and throw things and jog and do push-ups. Though he couldn't figure out why exactly Gerard had him following Mr. Creepy, Harry decided that he didn't care who or _what_ this guy was, as long as he wasn't a finwife. He shuddered. Short of Gerard commanding him to, Harry was never going to go back to Eynhallow again.

Harry pushed aside his thoughts and refocused on the man as he dropped from the tree he'd climbed and turned back towards the old burnt-out house. Which, suitably enough was apparently Mr. Creepy's home. He cautiously swooped down and into the underground passage he had found earlier that led to the basement of the home, which seemed to be where Mr. Creepy spent most of his time while inside the crumbling, blackened wreck. Harry quickly hid himself away on one of the rafters towards the back of the basement and kept an ear out for the man to arrive. The man arrived the second Harry was certain he was completely covered by the shadow and went over to the low table and perched on the edge. The man took a moment to sigh, and Harry was beginning to wonder if he'd be spending the rest of his life on the most boring stake out in history when Gerard called to him.

Harry tensed as he felt the familiar slimy compliance seep over him, and suddenly all he wanted more than anything in the world was to be with Gerard. Gerard was good to him. Gerard wanted to _see_ him. Harry felt sick with himself at the earnest excitement he felt. Harry resolutely settled down on his temporary perch in an attempt to resist Gerard's orders as long as possible.

He knew that he would eventually comply. He _knew_ that eventually he would feel less excited, and more queasy and that it would _hurt_ and that Gerard would be angry, and would trust him just a little less than before and that Harry would come just that much closer to Gerard deciding that he wasn't worth it anymore and that he would be better off killing Harry. And still, even then, Harry felt a little sad that Gerard would ever find him less than worthy because all he could ever want was to make Gerard happy--

Harry felt himself giving in. He sighed, half out of irritation at himself and half out of relief. He let himself fade back to Gerard's side ( _where he belongs, of course, because why would he ever want to be anywhere except wherever Gerard wants him to be_ ), and as he went he caught sight of a set of glowing red eyes, staring straight at him.

 

o0O0o

 

Harry silently phased into the seat next to Gerard without bothering to announce himself, knowing that Gerard was already aware of his presence.

"Took you long enough." Gerard said in a deceptively passive voice without bothering to look away from the road.

"I had yet to gather information of any importance." Harry responded, answering the unasked question. Gerard finally glanced at him, and Harry made sure his face was as blank as ever. Gerard studied his face for a moment before looking back out over the stretch of highway.

"No matter. You'll have plenty of time once we get there."

Harry resisted snorting in derision. He didn't know where they were going, when they would arrive, or how long they would be staying once they got there. They usually didn't stay in one place long enough to attract any attention from the locals, just long enough to take care of whatever creature had taken up residence.

They rode in silence for the next few hours, Gerard looking straight ahead and Harry staring out the window, trying to pretend that he was flying instead of trapped in a car with a surly old man who had control over every aspect of Harry's life. Harry had just begun to doze off when Gerard made a turn and pulled off into a rest stop just inside California. Harry straightened in his seat and turned to stare at Gerard, waiting for instruction (since Harry had very little control over his reactions to Gerard, he had long decided his best course of action was to be as silent and creepily compliant as possible).

Gerard put the car in park, ignoring Harry as he stepped out of the car and went to rummage in the back. After a few minutes he came back around to the front and opened the passenger door, dumping a duffle bag in Harry's lap. Harry placed a hand on the bag to keep it from falling but otherwise remained perfectly still. Gerard met Harry's eyes, something which he only did when he wanted to be certain Harry would hear and comply to every word.

"These are your clothes. There are some books as well, and a wallet with your license and a few photos." This was a ritual that Gerard went through every time they entered a place they might be staying awhile. Harry would receive a bag of clothes more suited to a teenager (or whatever role he was playing, once Gerard had discovered he could command Harry to change his features), a few personal affects, and Gerard would lay out the details of his life and personality.

"You are my grand-nephew, through my wife's older brother. You were raised in France until December 19th of last year, when your parents died in a hunting accident, after which I took custody of you as your closest remaining relative." Harry refrained from commenting on the somewhat conspicuous story. Usually they stayed as far away from 'hunting' as possible, in their stories at least.

"You speak English well because your father was Welsh and your maternal grandfather American. You and I have been travelling Europe for a little over a year, and you have been completing courses through correspondence. Your mother's name was Marie Francis Sinclair, your Father's name was Alexander Ryan Amherst. Your Name is Henry Ethan Amherst, named for both your grandfathers, Henry Sinclair on your mother's side and Ethan Amherst on your father's. Your birthday is January 3, you just turned 17. I have decided that it's time for you to get back into regular school, and we are moving here to be closer to my son and his family, especially his daughter, your cousin." Harry was confused by that last bit. Maybe they were meeting up with another group of hunters. Or former hunters, rather, who'd settled down for a time to raise a family and pass on the tradition to another generation. Gerard continued to extrapolate on the details of Harry's life, which meant they would probably be wherever they were staying for a while. He included facts like Harry's pet dog that he had from ages 7-12, a black lab named Cassandra who was hit by a car. He'd had a best friend, Jean, and a casual girlfriend, Blaise. He was frequently ill and missed school often (this was something they usually put into play, after Gerard had discovered just how many situations they could get out of by citing some vague illness and gesturing to Harry's unusual stillness and paleness).

The longer Gerard went on, the more Harry began to suspect that this wouldn't be the usual job. Gerard sounded like he was getting ready for an entirely new life in California. There was a much higher level of detail than there usually was, and many of the facts drew on aspects of their life, not even trying to disguise the fact that Gerard was a "hunter" and that they hadn't lived anywhere for more than two months since they had met. Eventually Gerard began citing the details of the new family they'd be meeting, and Harry began to connect the dots. This wasn't just some job, where they breeze in and out of a town in the span of a few months, never to be seen again. This was Gerard's cover for Harry's entire existence. They often didn't tell other hunters of the _special_ nature of their relationship because of how they might react. And apparently Gerard's son was no different. Harry had known he'd had a son with a family, and a much favored daughter, but never much about them, and Harry knew Gerard hadn't seen them in many years.

But apparently that was about to change.

At the end of his recitation of Harry's life (you're Henry now, you're Henry until Gerard tells you you're someone else) Gerard went to the back of the car and withdrew two garment bags, one of which he passed to Harry.

"Change into this. We'll arrive within the hour. We're going to be attending a funeral as soon as we arrive." Harry remained silent as ever, but apparently Gerard could sense his question.

"Kate's funeral." He elaborated. "My daughter. Your sister, now."

Gerard turned and walked into the rest stop with the garment bag flung over his shoulder.

Harry slammed his door shut and followed.

 

o0O0o

 

Allison stared at the coffin, not sure if she should be crying out of sadness or relief. Kate may have been crazy and awful at the end, but that didn't erase all the years of her being wonderful and understanding, all through Allison's distress over their constant moving and her inability to keep friends for more than a year, at most. Then again, Kate had nearly torn down the life she'd built here in Beacon Falls, the one place she'd ever wanted to stay in not because she didn't want to uproot her life again but because she was happy.

Allison felt her mother's grip tighten on her shoulder and instinctively glanced up, catching sight of an old man and a somber looking teenage boy trailing passively just a step behind him. She wondered briefly if they were at the cemetery to visit a grave, but then dismissed the thought as it became obvious they were heading straight for the small service her family had arranged.

She glanced at her father and tried to interpret the strange look on his face. Sorrow and confusion, mixed with something she couldn't identify. Longing, maybe.

She turned her full attention to the man as he stepped up to their small gathering, a sad, compassionate smile on his face. He looked about mid-sixties, in good health, but could have easily been older, or younger. The boy looked about her age and height, when she wasn't in heels. They were both dressed for a funeral. The older man quickly shook hands with her father, and she felt a bristle of anger at the thought that the man might be an . . . _associate_ of her father. _How dare they come here, how dare they disturb us when hunting was the reason everything was so fucked up-_ and then the man turned to her.

"Hello, Allison. I don't imagine you might remember me, but I'm your grandfather. You can call me Gerard."

 

o0O0o

 

Harry had remained silent throughout the ceremony, but that played into the character traits Gerard had laid out for him on the drive from the rest stop. _You're kind, and charming, but shy. We want you endearing, my son has a soft heart. We can use that to our advantage, if we play our cards right._

At the end of the service Gerard arranged to follow the small family back to their home, where Gerard and Harry would be staying for the time being, until they found a place of their own. _When_ exactly Gerard had worked this all out with his son, Christopher, Harry had no idea. The unfortunate circumstances of his life meant that he spent nearly all of his time at Gerard's side.

In the car Harry quickly divested himself of his tie, which he neatly rolled and stowed in the duffel bag in the footwell. He took a moment to go over his role and withdraw his wallet, which did indeed contain a French driver's license, a few bills, and photos, some of his "parents" and one of a small boy with messy black hair and light eyes with his arms flung around the neck of a large black lab. Harry's memories of his own appearance at that age were the only things that kept him from believing that the photo was genuine. There was another of a few photoshoot ready teens gathered in a coffee shop, grinning into the camera. Blaise and Jean, he supposed.

He stuffed the wallet back into the bag and familiarized himself with the clothing and the books in there. Just a few paperbacks in French, one he recognized as something he'd seen Hermione reading before. There was a well-worn copy of _The Odyssey_ , translated into English.

"Your father's favorite," Gerard informed him as they pulled into the drive of a very nice house. Harry didn't bother to respond and stuffed it back into the duffel before zipping it up.

The wife and daughter ( _Victoria and Allison_ , Harry reminded himself) had already gone into the house while the father ( _Christopher_ ) was waiting in the drive for them. Gerard pasted a weird look on his face, one Harry thought was maybe supposed to be "loving", and got out of the car. He walked straight up to Christopher and pulled him into a manly hug. Gerard whispered something in his ear, and Harry could just imagine it: _I know we haven't been close for a long time, but that's going to change now. Your mother's death changed me, but after Henry came into my life-_ etc. Harry knew the kind of power Gerard held over people. People wanted Gerard to like them, wanted to feel like he could be proud of them. Harry had seen it in the thugs who followed Gerard's every order without question, hell he had _felt_ it. If Christopher still loved his father at all, it didn't matter what excuses Gerard gave. They were already in.

Harry plastered an uneasy smile on his face as Christopher turned to him. He took the hand held out to him in a firm grip but made sure to seem uncertain of himself.

"I am sorry for your loss," Harry intoned solemnly. _Easy on the accent, you were close to your American grandfather, and we want you to feel familiar-_

Christopher's welcoming smile dropped a little, but he quickly masked it.

"Henry, it's good to finally meet you. I've heard -- well, not a lot to be honest, but all good things." Christopher took after his father, in people skills at least. Harry made sure to relax marginally and warm his smile a little. His time with Gerard had made him an excellent actor.

"Thank you, sir, for having us." Harry made sure to be polite, but sound a little stiff as if he was thinking too hard about what came out of his mouth. Christopher brightened a chuckled a little.

"No, no, call me Uncle Chris. I remember your mother, she was a good woman. A strong hunter. We all mourn her loss." Christopher said, his eyes softening. Harry had enough experience with this, at least.

"Thank you, si-Uncle Chris." Harry tried to balance sadness and polite befuddlement. "I didn't know you were close . . . ?" If Gerard was right (and he always was), the Amhersts had been flying below the radar for years before their death at the hands of a witch seeking revenge last winter. But then again, so had the Christopher Argents, with the birth of their daughter. It was entirely possible that Christopher had contacted his cousin between –

"No, unfortunately, we weren't close. We lost touch with the community around the time Allison was born, and they did as well shortly after us. Though I suppose you would be the explanation, wouldn't you?" Christopher was sincere, Harry could tell. And he empathized with the reason he now believed the Amhersts had dropped contact with the hunting community. Harry gave him a cautious smile and felt Gerard's hand drop to his shoulder and squeeze lightly in approval.

As Christopher led Gerard and Harry into the house, Harry considered going back to the car for his bags. But they could wait. He had a feeling they'd be staying awhile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title taken from the last stanza of "The Message" by John Donne:
> 
> Yet send me back my heart and eyes,  
> That I may know, and see thy lies,  
> And may laugh and joy, when thou  
> Art in anguish  
> And dost languish
> 
> . . . there's more to it than that, but that excerpt gets the point across pretty well I feel.


	3. Hell Must be Empty, Because Everyone is Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I'm the only one seeing these before they go out, so PLEASE let me know if anything strikes you as strange.
> 
> And also, I'm just trying to get the chapters out as soon as I reach a point that feels like I can stop. So sometimes they may be long or they may be short, but they'll probably always be around 1-2k words. 
> 
> But yes. This chapter is very short.

Harry was running down a corridor towards where he could hear Hermione and Ron, just around the corner. He could hear them laughing, and he wanted to know what was so funny, but no matter how long he was running he couldn’t seem to reach the end of the corridor. He was beginning to feel a little sick and breathless from trying to keep up with the bricks sliding past him, and their voices echoing in his head: _Harry, come along Harry, what are you doing Harry, hurry up Harry!_

 _I’m trying_ , he wanted to say, but his tongue felt thick with molasses and he couldn’t speak. Or perhaps it was the peanut butter he could smell, slathered thick on burnt toast . . .

“Henry? Are you okay?”

Harry ( _you’re Henry, fuck Harry, we don’t know a Harry)_ snapped his head upright from where it had been resting on the breakfast bar in the kitchen. Allison was smiling prettily at him, her doe eyes glittering as they peered out from under thick lashes.

“Err, yes, I am alright,” he stuttered out wearily _(thicken the accent just a touch, those moments you’re caught unawares are the moments that make or break your cover_ , Gerard’s voice whispered in his mind).

“Are you sure? You seem really tired,” Allison said, half to herself as she artistically swirled the butter knife through the peanut butter coating her toast.

“I just did not sleep very well,” Harry lied smoothly, _(lighten it now, pull  your vowels in a bit tighter)_ “the toast is burning.”

“Dammit!” Allison exclaimed as she whorled around and yanked the plug out of the wall, using the knife to steer the blackened slice onto a plate as it popped out of the toaster. She glared at it somewhat forlornly.

“Sorry, the timer doesn’t work very well anymore . . .” She hedged at she glanced between the toast and the bin, trying to decide its fate. “You can have the other one,” she offered. “It’s slightly less charcoal-y."

“I don’t mind,” Harry answered honestly. “Besides, we’ll be late if we don’t leave soon. Don’t we have to be there by eight?"

Allison cursed under her breath as she checked the clock on the oven and took off up the stairs to retrieve her book bag from her room.

Harry smeared peanut butter on the abandoned slice while he waited for her to return. He and Gerard had been staying with ‘Uncle Chris’ and his family for about a week and a half, and Harry had spent nearly every night out with Gerard or out completing Gerard’s tasks, which mostly involved walking the town’s perimeter and setting up protection against unwelcome outside forces, as well as more specific protections for the house and charming the Argent’s cars and weapons while they slept. Harry hadn’t slept more than a few hours in days.

Gerard had also finally seen fit to inform him of the werewolves in town, most specifically the one he was watching and a few others unknown. Harry gritted his teeth as he remembered the Gerard explaining Kate’s history in town – _she killed off most of the local pack a few years back, shame the one got away, the slippery beasts_ –

Harry barely suppressed a jump as a hand clapped down on his shoulder.

“Protect Allison at school. She’s new to hunting,” Gerard said in his ear, voice pitched low. Harry could hear the unsaid “liability” Gerard would have usually thrown in somewhere in such a statement. “Have a good day at school,” he tacked on for Allison’s sake as she skipped down the steps and into the kitchen, backpack in hand. He received a bright grin for his efforts. The front Harry and Gerard put up for the family had apparently endeared Gerard not only to his estranged son, but to Allison as well.

Harry pasted on a slightly nervous, but nonetheless charming smile on his face and scooped his bag up from where it rested on the ground. He rose to his feet to follow Allison out the door as she munched on her toast, surreptitiously sliding his into the bin as they passed it.

“Goodbye, Gerard! We’ll see you tonight!” Harry called with only somewhat false cheer before slamming the door shut behind him. Being in school with Allison meant that he’d increased his number of Gerard-Free Hours but at least seven a day on weekdays, not including travel time.

Now he just had to decide if High School was worth it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is based off a line from The Tempest by William Shakespeare, the original quote being: "Hell is empty and all the devils are here." 
> 
> Because no matter how much you like them, 90% of the characters in this are super f*d up.


	4. Created in Spite: How Else?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bit of an interlude. Just needed to set the scene a little. 
> 
> Let me know if there's anything funky or confusing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DON'T SHOOT!   
> I know, I'm awful. I really haven't left this story though. I just have trouble moving things forward, plot-wise.
> 
> The title comes from "Caliban upon Setebos" by Robert Browning. The meaning in context doesn't really correlate, but secretly it's how I think of High School. It was obviously designed by someone with hell in mind. And I actually did pretty well, both socially and academically. I can't even begin to imagine how much it had to have sucked for some people.

“Okay, so the chemical composition of galactose – Hey! Eyes on me!” Stiles snapped his fingers in front of Scott’s face.

“She just pulled in. Should I talk to her? I feel like I should try to say something –” Scott’s voice squeaked up an octave and a half as he batted Stiles’ hand out of the way.

“Oh fuck it,” Stiles muttered under his breath, snapping the textbook shut. “You were going to fail anyways. Listen buddy, now is not a good time to – oh shit, she’s coming over here,” Stiles grabbed Scott by the ear and awkwardly forced his head away from where he had been staring straight at Allison as she crossed the parking lot and headed straight for the bike rack they were leaning against.

“You really gotta cut the creepy there, dude,” Stiles explained to Scott’s hurt look, just as Allison stepped up on the curb, a familiar looking boy with dark hair just a few feet behind hair.

“Hey,” she said somewhat breathlessly as she laced her fingers with Scott’s.

“Hi,” he replied with a soppy smile plastered across his face.

“Not to kill the romance or anything, but who’s that? And also aren’t you supposed to be all, you know, ‘it’s complicated’ on facebook? I’m going to assume that your parents haven’t suddenly had a change of heart about trying to kill Scott, but correct me if I’m wrong.” Because someone had to look out for Scott. God knows he wasn’t doing it himself.

“Yes, Stiles, but this is my cousin, Henry, who is definitely very cool and has agreed to cover for me at home!” Allison managed to say this all in her ‘you’re an idiot but I’m humoring you’ voice without losing her sweet smile or looking away from Scott.

“Speaking of,” she turned and tugged the boy behind her forward a few steps so they were side-by-side on the sidewalk, “Henry, this is Scott and that’s Stiles.” She beamed around at them all like there was absolutely no problem with any of this, then went back to allowing Scott to stare deep into her eyes.

“Uhm, hello, then, I guess.” Henry said while smiling bashfully in an _almost_ irritatingly charming way. He and Allison did look somewhat alike, but in a manufactured way – they both had dark, wavy hair, pale skin, and delicate, square features – but they still managed to lack that look that made people think _Oh, they look so alike, they must be related_.

“‘Sup,” Stiles offered, because ‘Sorry I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself when I last saw you, while I was stalking your family during your aunt’s burial’ would probably send the wrong message.  “Soooo . . . Canadian?”

“What?” Henry blinked in confusion.

“You know,” Stiles gestured vaguely. “The accent.”

Henry frowned. “French. Sort of.” He shrugged, like that didn’t automatically make him the coolest kid in Beacon Hills just by merit of being pretty and foreign and mysterious. Except, you know, werewolves.

“Of course,” Stiles answered, deciding to play it cool. “Hee hee hee, haw haw haw.” Or not.

“Sorry,” he tried to explain at the look Henry was giving him. “It just sort of slipped out. I watched the Little Mermaid a lot when I was younger.” Not cool at all, apparently.

“I’m sorry, I don’t really . . .” Henry trailed off uncertainly.

“It’s a movie, and there’s this song, ‘Les Poissons, les poisons!’” Stiles began to warble off key before he could stop himself.

“I don’t really like fish,” Henry said, looking more and more confused as the conversation went on. Stiles could hear that Scott and Allison had started sucking face in the background.

Stiles had opened his mouth to say what would probably end up being something even more awkward and offensive when the bell cut him off.

“ _Thank fuck_ ,” he breathed as he shoved his chemistry book back in his bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“Itwasnicetomeetyouseeyoulaterbye!” he shouted probably more loudly than was necessary before running off to find his first period class. Fuck Scott. He could get there on his own.

* * *

Harry stared uncertainly after the boy that had bolted at the sound of the bell. Allison detached from her secret boyfriend and bid him goodbye with a grin. Harry waved to him awkwardly and watched him lope away before turning back to Allison.

“You’ve got your schedule, right? Let me see it.” Harry fumbled with his bag and pulled out the folder he had been given by Gerard that held all the information the school had provided.

“Let’s see,” they bent their heads together over the small scrap of paper with a grid full of incomprehensible strings of letters and numbers. Allison seemed to understand them, but they were lost on Harry.

“I know where these all are. I’ll walk you to your first class and then you can just ask people from there. Once you figure out the layout of the school it shouldn’t be too hard.” Harry nodded and smiled and made little noises in all the right places as he followed Allison through the hallways, dodging around the teenagers that were shoving their way through. He chose not to mention that he already had the layout of the school memorized thanks to the night he had spent there on Gerard’s command, mapping the exits and entrances, used and unused rooms, and quick routes onto and off of campus where one was unlikely to be spotted by a school official.

“Here, this is the language hallway. It should be right . . . here!” Allison handed Harry back his schedule, waved cheerily, and instantly disappeared back into the crush of students trying to get to class on time. Harry blinked in confusion for a few moments before stuffing his schedule back into his backpack and zipping it shut. He stepped into the classroom Allison had indicated and took an open seat near the front but slightly off the side. The other students filtered in, a few giving him strange looks, probably because they’d never seen him before.

While Harry might have once chosen to sit in the middle of the classroom to avoid drawing attention, or ducked his head at all the gawking, he now had Gerard’s voice echoing in the back of his head: _You need to be well liked, it doesn’t hurt to stand out a little but avoid making enemies – you want to be better than most, but not the best, charming, but not too charming – nobody trusts someone who seems too perfect._

So Harry talked to people he didn’t want to talk to, and laughed at stupid jokes that weren’t funny, and smiled when he caught someone looking at him.

He had just sent a quick grin to the pretty girl seated to his left when the door to the classroom slammed shut and the teacher moved to the front of the classroom.

“Bonjour, class, comment allez-vous?” The woman asked in a bland tone as she moved to the large teacher’s desk in the corner and began shuffling through the papers there. Harry froze as the class half-mumbled through a series of answers ranging from a particularly loud “Comme-ci, comme-ca,” right behind him, to a muttered “ _fuck_ , I’m too hungover for this,” from the kid slouched against the wall to his right. Harry hesitantly raised his hand.

“Excuse me, madame, but I think I am in the wrong class?” Harry said, thickening his fake accent just a little in order to avoid the question of _why_ he thought he was in the wrong class. The teacher gave him an unimpressed look and gestured him forward.

“New student? Let me see your schedule,” she said even as he offered it to her. She spent a moment looking it over before handing it back. “No, you’re in the right place.”

He gave her a confused look. “But, this is a French class? I am from France.” It didn’t matter that he was about as French as French fries, but the character outline Gerard had given him was very clear. Harry was Henry now, and Henry was French, and spoke French, and until very recently had lived in France.

“Doesn’t matter, you have to take a language and apparently French II is your language. Get a textbook from the shelf and sit down.” She turned to speak to the class at large then, clearly dismissing him.

“Today we will be reviewing the present indicative, the near past, and the near future tenses for your test tomorrow. Open to page 127 and fill out this worksheet.” She handed a stack of papers to a student in the first row who began passing them out, and then sat back behind her desk and turned to her computer, ignoring them.

Harry awkwardly pulled the first book from the shelf and then slid back into his seat. He didn’t know what kind of face he was making, but even the hungover kid was sending him a sympathetic look.

So far, high school was definitely not worth it.


	5. The Abyss is Looking Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is derived from that quote by Nietzsche. I'm really just being lazy, it's a rather shallow meaning. Though I prefer the obvious to titles when you have no idea how they're related to the chapter at all.
> 
> . . . And the plot progresses!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any thoughts on the Sheriff's real name? I left him without one in this chapter but it kind of annoys me.

Gerard was waiting in the kitchen when Allison and Harry got home. The second Gerard met Harry’s eyes, he didn’t even have a chance to resist before he felt something distinctly _other_ reach through him and force him to place his hand on Allison’s forehead and give her a little _push_.

“I’ll be in my room, doing homework,” she stated in a slightly dazed way. The second she was out of the room and up the stairs, Harry looked at Gerard and felt a sick, hot feeling rise up in him for a moment before it vanished abruptly. He blinked in the wake of such an emotion, but he couldn’t put a name to it. He might have recognized it as anger, once, or maybe disgust, but how could he be angry at Gerard? Gerard, who was so good to him, who he only wanted to help –

“You’ve been getting better lately, I barely have to focus at all now.” Gerard mused. Something cold slid down into Harry’s stomach and he couldn’t stop his shoulders from twitching. _Of course, it’s good, it will help me better serve Gerard, all I want is to please Gerard why isn’t this making me happy –_ Gerard grabbed a peach from the bowl of fruit on the table and chucked it at Harry.

“Eat that.” He commanded. “You’ll be skipping dinner tonight.”

Harry mechanically bit into the peach, hastily licking at the juice when it spilled down his wrist. In the beginning, Gerard had experimented quite a bit with Harry’s abilities and limits, and his command over them. There had been a period of time when Gerard had tried depriving Harry of food and drink and testing how it affected his capabilities. They’d never gotten to the point that his life had been in serious danger, but in the end Gerard had concluded that Harry would need to eat on a fairly regular basis, which Harry was thankful for – _See, Gerard is so good to you, you should be so fucking grateful to have Gerard –_

“Chris will arrive home in a short while. When you greet him you’re tired, you’re going to go to your room and complete your homework, and then you will fall asleep early and sleep through the night.” There was an echo in the back of Harry’s head letting him know that this wasn’t actually what Gerard wanted from him. Just what he wanted everyone else to see.

“I want to know exactly who the werewolves are in this town.” As Gerard cut across Harry’s thoughts, he began leading Harry out of the kitchen and down towards the basement, where he had restraints and an electrical current waiting to be set up. Harry actually tried to dredge up some dread for the ordeal Gerard’s unspoken request would entail, but there was nothing within himself that would oppose to anything Gerard might request of him.

“We can’t have any direct contact with the boy,” ( _Derek Hale,_ Harry filled in as Gerard knelt and began to fiddle with the connections.) “Not after the suspicion Kate was under prior to her death.” Sometimes Harry thought that Gerard just used him as an excuse to talk to himself. It had long been made it clear that he didn’t give a shit that Harry understood what was going on, so long as it didn’t interfere with his ability to complete whatever task Gerard had set forth for him.

“We’re going to need to find out who else is in his pack. There’s no way he hasn’t begun expanding, not after what happened. He wouldn’t risk being alone.” Gerard sighed as he levered himself to his feet. “I’m going to need their names.”

Harry nodded shortly. They both knew what Gerard was asking of him, just as they both knew Harry would comply without question.

The silence between them was broken abruptly by the sound of the front door slamming open, and Gerard suddenly smiled warmly, clasping a hand on Harry’s shoulder before passing him and making his way back to the front room. Harry followed him silently, and then waited at the top of the stairs as he listened to their muffled greetings, before sending an image of himself to walk through the kitchen and into the front room.

He closed his eyes and focused on giving Chris a convincing greeting, exchanging pleasantries for a few moments before excusing himself and moving past him to climb the stairs to the second floor. As soon as the false image was out of sight, Harry released it and set up a static illusion of his body lying in the bed, asleep.

His vision flickered for a few moments between where his illusion had dropped off and where he was, before clearing. He stepped back down a few steps and closed the door to the basement behind him, throwing up a ward against anyone who was not Gerard.

Once he knew he would not be disturbed, Harry got to work. He quickly cleared a small area on the floor and pulled over a crate Gerard had set aside for him, complete with a pen and a few sheets of paper. Harry knelt on the floor and took a pen in his hand, closing his eyes for a few moments and concentrating on what he wanted the pen to do, before he delicately balanced it on its point at the top of the page. When the pen fails to topple over and instead hovers attentively, Harry sits back on his heels and lets out a small grin. _Now comes the hard part._

Harry took a moment to make himself comfortable, taking off his shoes and lying flat on his back on the cement floor, pulling off his sweater and folding it under his head. The last (and only) time Gerard had made him do this, he’d fallen over and smacked his head on the floor and his legs were completely asleep.

He had found that closing his eyes improved pretty much any magic he did. He was pretty sure it was just in his mind, but he felt it helped all the same. Instead of trying to block out his connection to the present, like Snape had always instructed him to do during their occlumency lessons, he instead focused wholly on his surroundings. His muscles were stiff and sore with lack of sleep, the floor of the basement was cold, the cold was seeping into his clothing and making them feel slightly damp, there was a cricket in the corner, there were more crickets outside, there were several houses outside, no one was home in the house to the left but the one on the right had two small children and a babysitter making cookies, the babysitter was tired, the youngest, a boy, was shoving handfuls of cookie dough into his pocket, the oldest, a girl was pretending not to notice . . .

On and on and on it went, Harry’s mind spiraling out further and further from where his body lay on the floor of the basement. It reminded him of when he was small, when he used to sit by the large box of Legos in primary school and sift through hundreds of tiny blocks, searching for ones that were just the right size and color. He skimmed through the thoughts of office workers driving home from work, of the doctors at the hospital, of the janitors at the high school. It was almost too easy to lose himself to the ocean of consciousness outside. Every mind had a distinct flavor, and he knew how to recognize them even if he’d never seen them before. Colors and sceneries and tastes flowed through him and maybe he could just relax and let himself dissolve painlessly into that child taking a nap, or that man making out with his girlfriend, or that boy running through the forest with such a sense of _freedom_ bubbling up in his lungs –

 _No, not boy._ Harry’s thoughts interrupted. _Werewolf._ Abruptly he lost grip on the outside world and slipped and fell hard back into his own body. “Isaac Lahey,” he breathed out loud, and stared at the ceiling as the pen scratched in the background. _Gerard wants you to stay here. Gerard wants you to find them, find them all and tell him who they are, Gerard is so good for us why would we ever leave him_ – his thoughts kept prattling at him. He needed to anchor himself. He sat up for a moment and pulled out his phone, checking the time that had passed. He’d been at it for nearly an hour already.

Harry breathed out slowly before setting his phone aside and lying back down again. He needed to find everyone else and then Gerard would come find him and pull him back. (In the back of his head, something was screaming at him, but he ignored it. He had work to do.)

* * *

 Out in the forest, Isaac paused for a moment as he felt something tug at his mind. Something horrible and desperate that reminded him too much of his time spent trapped in his father’s basement. It was gone almost as soon as it came, though, and after a few shaky breaths, it had dissipated completely.

* * *

Stiles was just finishing his homework when he heard his father pull up in the driveway. He took a few seconds to save his paper before springing out of his chair and down the stairs.

“Hey dad I was just wondering where you were I thought you said you’d be home earlier tonight but you weren’t so I didn’t start making dinner yet and – what is that?” His father was carrying a bag of something that had soaked through the brown paper. A few seconds later his nose caught up to him.

“Are those fries?”

The sheriff threw his head back and laughed, shaking the bag a little.

“Don’t worry, I brought some for you too.” Stiles scowled and briefly weighed the merits of keeping his father from eating more things that will make his heart explode and hot fries. After a few seconds of contemplation he jumped over the last few steps and snatched the bag on his way to the kitchen.

 “Ohmigod these are so good,” he moaned through a mouthful. His dad snatched the bag back and turned it on its side on the counter and pulled out a few burgers, sliding one to Stiles. They stood side by side for a few minutes in complete silence, save for the sounds of eating. His father seemed to be working up to something, which made Stiles kind of nervous because that carried with it the possibility of _feelings_ , but before either of them could say anything, Stiles’ phone began making some obnoxious noise from upstairs.

“Uh, I think that’s my alarm. Though I don’t understand why it’s going off _now_ instead of this _morning_ like I set it to do –” Stiles caught sight of the put-upon face his father was making and grabbed a napkin to wipe the grease off his fingers.

“Right, I’ll just go . . . turn that off.” Only he had barely made it into the living room before he felt something _tug_ at a corner of his mind and he paused. He tried to concentrate on the feeling, and just sort of . . . _tugged_ back, and ended up being pulled into this cesspool of thought. Every negative feeling he’d ever had was amplified infinitely, and there was a boy his age in front of him, oozing these feelings like pus from an infection. He felt like he was drowning, and his body swayed, but he was not with his body right now. He was staring at the boy, who he _knew_ , he knew he did, but he was being overwhelmed by the pure _hate_ and _frustration_ surging around him, obscuring his sight like thick smoke. He could _hear_ things, inside his head, and the voices were _screaming_ at him – _GET ME OUT OF HERE GET ME AWAY FROM HIM I CAN’T STOP HIM GET ME OUT OF HERE –_ and it felt like fingers were digging into his brain, tearing his skull open and burrowing into the contents and things flashed before his eyes and he couldn’t look away and –

“ _Stiles! Stiles, oh my god –_ ”

Stiles could feel someone gripping his arms too tightly and shaking him till his head lolled on his shoulders, but he couldn’t tear himself away from the boy who was so, so desperate for something that he couldn’t define and after a while it was easier to just let the black take him.

* * *

Harry sat up heaving for breath and Gerard _nearly_ startled from his place in the fold out chair beside him, where he had been glancing over the few names on the list and texting his contacts to find out more about them. He stood and helped Harry up, his face as blank as ever.

“That was unusual,” He commented blandly as Harry choked on the air wheezing in and out of his lungs.

“There-there was someone there,” Harry tried to explain through the sharp pain in his head that came from being legilimensed within an inch of his life. He’d had no idea that was inside him. He’d forgotten how to feel over the course of his time with Gerard, at least anything other than sycophantic obedience. He could already feel some _thing_ clamping down on his thoughts though. _Shh, shh, Gerard is good to you, don’t be like that, you should be grateful, it’s only right that you want to make him happy, how could you do anything but what would make Gerard pleased with you –_ Harry tried to quiet the thoughts ringing at the back of his mind.

“There was someone who could see me,” Harry tried to explain now that he had regained his calm. “He – there was this boy, and he was in his living room, and thinking about-about school or something, and then I could feel him inside of me . . . Gerard, he shouldn’t have been able to see me,” Harry was grasping at straws. He wanted more than anything to clench his mouth shut and give this kid a chance of making it away from Gerard but _Gerard wants to know, think of how happy Gerard would be if you could help him find this boy_ and it all came spilling out.

“No one should have been able to see me. No one can do that, not unless they’re like me. And _no one_ is like me.” The coven up in Canada that had called him here, they wouldn’t have done that if there had been anyone like him in this world already. He was special for a reason. The magic here was different, wilder. It hadn’t manifested in humanity the way it had in his home world.

Gerard was staring intently at him from where he was crouched.

“Are you certain?” He asked, his eyes creepily intense the way they hadn’t been since he had first _acquired_ Harry. Harry tried to stop himself but it all just kept spilling out of him.

“When I was-when I was learning, I did the same thing to me teacher. I was just – _frustrated_ – and I just turned it back on him.” He looked down into his lap, at his fingers clenching around each other and he tried to just make himself _shut the fuck up_ but he couldn’t.

“He’s like me,” he finally managed as a compromise between wanting to comply to Gerard's wishes and wanting to protect the identity of this boy. Gerard nodded, and stood.

“This is a good start,” he told Harry, referring to the short list. “This is probably all there is at this point. If these don’t pan out we can try again in a few days.” Harry didn’t move from his position in the ground.

“He’ll be able to see me too,” Harry said. “He’ll be able to find us.”

Gerard paused for a moment at the bottom of the steps.

“We’ll just have to be ready for him then, won’t we?”

Harry glanced over at the familiar trunk covered in sigils that resided in the corner of the basement. The trunk that Gerard had taken from the house in Canada, that held his ‘instruction manual’ and all the information needed to trap a mage and bind it to oneself.

“Yes, we will,” He answered, before standing and grabbing his jacket up off the floor. He summoned a few of the papers to his hands, ones covered in complex arrays with detailed instructions in Latin scribbled carefully into the margins. He passed them to Gerard, who never noticed the other sheets he made appear folded in his pocket. Gerard never said what, exactly, they needed to be prepared for. A few extra preparations made on the side couldn’t hurt.

Harry carefully avoided thinking to himself what, exactly, those extra preparations might entail, and the voices in his head were strangely quiet for once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, ask if something doesn't make sense.  
> Also, feel free to point out any typos. 
> 
> And yes! I have plans for these characters now! So stop me if I'm being too vague! I will elaborate if necessary!


	6. I made him do things in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title is from the poem “The Pauper Witch of Grafton”, by Robert Frost. It basically is a reference to both Peter’s and Gerard’s manipulations of Lydia and Harry, respectively. The quote hallucination Peter uses is from the same poem.  
> The original quotes are:  
> “Right’s right, and the temptation to do right/When I can hurt someone by doing it/Has always been too much for me, it has.”  
> “I made him do it for me in the dark./And he liked everything I made him do.” (in reference to the witch enchanting her husband to do witchy things for her.)

Stiles moaned as someone lightly slapped his cheeks and tried to roll his head away.

“Stiles . . . Stiles, wake up now . . . Stiles, can you hear me? Stiles . . .”

He wanted everything to go away so he could just lie here, on the nice cool ground –

Stiles tried to sit up and immediately smacked his head _hard_ into someone else’s forehead. He barely heard the hiss of pain from Scott as he rolled onto his side, clutching his head.

“ _Fuck!_ ” he breathed loudly, before grabbing the top of Scott’s head and using it as leverage to sit up fully, ignoring the whines that got him.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” the Sheriff said drily from behind him. A glance revealed that he was still lying on the ground and that while Mama McCall had in fact been the one gently slapping his face and trying to wake him up, Scott had been hovering over him, despite his complete inability to contribute at all like the lovable buffoon he was.

“What happened?” Stiles asked. He figured it was better to go the clueless route, rather than try to explain the voices he heard in his head right before passing out.

“We were hoping you could tell us,” his father said as he raised a single brow.

 “Uh . . . head rush?” he tried.

“You weren’t sitting,” his father said in his ‘try again’ voice.

“Sudden onset narcolepsy!” Scott’s eyes were bouncing back and forth between them nervously. The Sheriff pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Stiles . . .”

“It’s probably dehydration,” Mrs. McCall interjected as she appeared over Scott’s shoulder with a glass of water in hand. Stiles hadn’t even noticed her leaving.

“Here, drink this,” she said as she handed it over. He drained it in a few gulps and handed it back. “It’s the most common cause of loss of consciousness at this age, behind head injuries and undiagnosed heart issues. He takes Adderall, so if he had any heart problems we definitely would’ve found out by now.” She rattled off in a soothing, efficient manner.

“And unless I hit my head on the way down I definitely have no head injuries,” Stiles offered. He loved having a best friend whose mother was a nurse. There were so many times his father had panicked and nearly taken him to the hospital over nothing, only for a quick call to Scott’s mom to soothe him enough for him to keep his head.

“No, you didn’t fall very hard, and you hit the couch instead of the table. It was more of a drunken sway and then a slow descent, rather than a full on swoon.” The Sheriff admitted. It was only just hitting Stiles exactly how embarrassing it was to have passed out. Very embarrassing, was the answer.

“Either way, you should probably set up an appointment with his primary care physician soon, but it’s not an emergency. And drink more water,” Mama McCall commanded.

“Yes ma’am,” both Stilinskis mumbled. Stiles could hear Scott mumble along too, out of pure reflex.

“We should probably head out soon,” Mrs. McCall said as she put the glass down on the coffee table. “I hope you feel better, Stiles,” she added warmly as the Sheriff rose from his seat in the armchair to walk her to the car. Stiles nodded his thanks and watched them head for the front hall, talking in low voices in that way that parents always did.

“So, is that what actually happened?” Scott muttered in Stiles’ ear as he helped him get off the floor and collapse onto the couch. He groaned as his head throbbed angrily at the sudden movement.

“Am I not allowed to pass out without your werewolf magic heebie-jeebies getting all over everything? And of course not, I wouldn’t fucking pass out without some sort of supernatural intervention.” Stiles grumbled. “There was someone in my head. I was walking through the living room and all of a sudden it went all Twilight Zone, mind-meld on me and there was this guy – Oh my god!” Stiles sat upright. “Holy shit, Allison’s cousin!”

“What?” Scott’s eyes were wide, and he had a vaguely panicked look on his face.

“It was Allison’s cousin! Shit, he is messed up in the head, let me tell you, there was definitely something wrong,” he elaborated as he sank back into the couch cushions.

“I don’t know, he seemed pretty nice to me?” Scott had his confused puppy face on.

“No, not then, just now, when I saw him in my head, there was something weird. Also, how would you even know? You were sucking face the entire time. I bet you couldn’t even tell me what he looked like.” Stiles accused.

“He – well, he – he looks like Allison, right?” Scott sounded unsure about this. Stiles snorted.

“He could have had an extra dick growing out of his face and you wouldn’t have noticed. Anyways, that’s not the point—”

“I totally would have noticed someone with a dick on his face! He definitely did not have a dick on his face!” Scott interrupted huffily.

The Sheriff coughed loudly from the doorway. Scott jumped and turned red.

“Scott,” he said.

“Yes sir?” Scott replied sheepishly.

“Go home now.”

“Yes sir.” Scott made a texting motion with his hands at Stiles before standing and walking swiftly past the Sheriff, yelling “Feel better!” over his shoulder as he went.

There was an uncomfortable quiet between Stiles and his dad as they listened to car doors slam and the McCalls driving off. Stiles looked down and picked at a loose thread in his pants.

“Stiles,” his father started.

“I know.” Stiles said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

The Sheriff made a frustrated noise. “I don’t want you to be sorry, Stiles! You passed out! You don’t have to be sorry for that!” He sighed and crossed the room, landing heavily on the couch beside Stiles and putting an arm around him. Stiles let himself fall into his dad’s side and leaned against his shoulder. “Just _talk_ to me,” he dad said. “We’ve gotta talk to each other, Stiles. Don’t keep stuff from me. I worry.”

Stiles closed his eyes and leaned more heavily against his father. “I promise.” He pretended he wasn’t lying.

The Sheriff grunted and clapped his hand a few times on Stiles’ shoulder, obviously having exceeded his weekly capacity for emotions. “I’ll make an appointment tomorrow with your doctor,” he said, and Stiles sat back up.

“Thanks, dad. I’ll see you in the morning.” He said as he stood.

“Get some sleep,” his dad ordered. Stiles nodded absent mindedly, only listening with half an ear as he made plans to begin research on telepathy. Whatever had happened, it hadn’t been one way. Stiles had definitely _tugged_ back.

* * *

 

Lydia paused outside the counselor’s office as she noticed the boy was there again. He perked up slightly at the sight of her, but she just rose her eyebrows and primly took a seat next to him, pulling out a book and pretending that he didn’t exist.

“So I’ve moved on from you, though I don’t think my heart will ever be the same.” He announced. Lydia just rolled her eyes and turned the page. He was the kind of guy who flirted with everyone, but apparently he’d picked up on her annoyance from last time.

“Is that so?” she asked drily, deciding to humor him for a while. She couldn’t focus anyways.

“Yes, most definitely. There shall forever be a scar on my heart with your name on it,” he swooned dramatically. She let out a prissy little sigh, the kind that told people she was done listening, and lifted her book back up.

“Kidding, kidding,” he pleaded, waiting for her to look back at him. “What do you think of the new boy? French, right? That’s always hot.” Lydia dropped her book back into her lap, resigning herself to this conversation.

“Allison’s cousin? Certainly not. First of all, she’s too good for you, so her cousin definitely is. Also she mentioned he had a girlfriend back in France. I haven’t met him yet, so I can’t say for sure he’s entirely opposed to all men, but either way he’s a league above you.” She gave him an obvious up and down, before pulling out her phone in order to look busy. It wouldn’t do to be seen socializing with commoners.

“Oh, I think I could bring him around to my way of thinking,” he said while wagging his eyebrows. “I’ll be his welcome wagon. Show him around town, you never know.” He shrugged and leaned back in his chair, looking awfully self-assured.

“Oh yes, ‘Welcome to Beacon Hills, home of strange animal killings and disturbing unsolved murder cases,’” she muttered sarcastically while checking her email.

“Exactly, and then we can go on romantic walks in the moonlight, while I protect him from the big bad bullshit mountain lions that roam the forests of Beacon Hills. He needs someone to show him the ropes of how to survive in Beacon Hills. It would be practically criminal to leave him unattended,” he said in a strangely flat voice. “‘Rights right, and the temptation to do right when I can get hot French boys out of it has always been too much for me, it has.’” Lydia gave him a sharp glance.

“Did you really just ad lib Robert Frost?” She asked disbelievingly. His cheeky grin was answer enough, but before he could respond the door opened and Lydia was called in.

“See you on the other side, Red,” he called after her. She decided not to dignify that with a response and firmly closed the door on his smirk.

* * *

 

Harry completed the worksheet in French class quickly, and then closed his eyes and laid his head down on the desk, cushioning it with his arms. His mind was swimming, and his head ached from lack of sleep and his brush with the collective consciousness of Beacon Hills.

Earlier that morning, before the sun had risen, Harry had sat over Allison with a hand on her forehead as she slept. Gerard’s instructions echoed in his mind: _That secret boyfriend of hers? She won’t be seeing him anymore. Family’s what’s important to her now. Hunting. She needs some time. If he’s a good boy, he’ll understand and leave her be._

He tried not to flinch as someone tapped him on the shoulder.

“Hey, Frenchie, help me out here,” a girl hissed. He let out an inaudible groan before grabbing his paper and passing it back to her.

“Thanks, you – you look like shit,” she said. Harry rolled his eyes and laid his head back down.

“I’m not entirely sure how that’s possible, in the face of such incredible charm,” he told her from his place on the desk. She snorted a laugh as she copied down his answers.

“What can I say, it’s a talent. Seriously though, you don’t look right.” He noticed she didn’t ask if he was okay, just sort of left it hanging there. He huffed and buried his head in his arms.

“Thanks,” she said again a few minutes later, dropping his paper on top of his head. He grabbed it and put it on his desk before it could slide off onto the floor. “I’m Erica,” she added. There was a sort of cautious tone to her voice, like she was testing the waters. He turned around to look her over. She was pretty, sort of sultry looking, with dark, hooded eyes and very red lips.

“Henry,” he offered.

“That didn’t sound very French. Isn’t it like _Ahn-wi_ or something?” She said everything in a very deliberately casual tone. He shrugged.

“It’s not French. I’m named for my Grandfather. He was American,” he explained.

“Cool,” she replied. “Hey, are you wearing cologne?” she asked suddenly.

“Uhm, no?” he said, giving her a weird look. “Why, do I smell?” He resisted the urge to sniff his shirt.

“No,” she quickly assured him. “Well, yes, but not bad. Like . . . like lemon, or mint or something. Rosemary? Never mind,” She shook her head. “It’s a good smell, whatever it is.” The bell rang, cutting off anything else she might have said. She grinned at him as she swung her bag over her shoulder.

“Thanks again, _Henry_ ,” she said, emphasizing the American accent. “See you next time.”

“Sure,” he nodded to her absently, before picking up his own bag. He had ten minutes until his next class, more if he pretended to be have gotten lost. He dropped his worksheet on the teacher’s desk as he left the classroom and ducked into the bathroom down the hall.

He locked himself into a stall, dropping his bag on the hook and rifling through it for the papers he had taken from the basement the night before. _I’m not doing anything wrong,_ he told himself as he tried to smooth them out as his hands shook and he fumbled for a pen. _I’m just making preparations, just like Gerard told me to,_ he reasoned. Gerard had left it up to interpretation. He was just covering all the bases, that’s all. He finished writing his message and folded the papers tightly, stuffing them into an envelope he’d pilfered out of Christopher’s home office that morning. _There’s nothing wrong with this. Gerard said nothing against this. He won’t mind. He never has to know,_ Harry tried to tell himself. He took one last steadying breath and enchanted the letter to find the nearest wizard, other than himself, and watched the envelope dissolve into the air. _No one has to know. It’ll all be fine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, point things out to me. Be an ass, be a grammar-nazi. I don't care, just tell me if you don't understand. I will try to make it better.


	7. A Soul for Sale or Rent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from Queen song. 
> 
> Everything is going to implode soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW, I'M SORRY
> 
> Even my computer was like "what the fuck, kimmy, I've been dead for months." And then promptly peaced out for eternity. This is coming to you via phone.  
> Let's be real, no one really cares why I've been gone. The important thing is I am updating!

Stiles pressed his head against the cool metal of his locker as he waited for Scott to get out of class. He had spent the majority of the previous night researching and skyping Scott in turn, until Scott had fallen asleep around one. By three AM he had been sucked into the Wikipedia vortex, moving in a downward spiral from particle physics to spoon benders to Charles Xavier and getting trapped in a link loop on the page about poisoned plants commonly used in the past to induce trancelike states, only truly escaping when his dad knocked on his door to make sure he was alive and ready for school. Since second period he had been considering pretending to pass out for a second time just so he could lay down on the nice cold linoleum and stop  _moving_. Just five minutes, that's all he asked. 

"What happened to you? You are the second person that shade of grey I have seen today. Was there some sort of party that I just wasn't invited to?" Erica asked as she fell against the locker Stiles was seeking sanctuary in. He moaned in response.

"Quit whining," she drawled, "and cheer up. I've got a message for you." Erica grinned widely when he finally glanced up at her and began to gape openly. 

"Forget me, what the hell happened to _you?!_ "

Erica leaned in and her grin sharpened. "Oh, not much. A new haircut, some new clothes, a little of the new medicine Scott's been using." Stiles heart sank. 

"Works like a charm," She added with a wink as the warning bell rang. "Anyways, I best be going. But a certain common acquaintance of ours wanted me to pass on a message for Scott. Let him know that he and Derek aren't alone anymore. And I hate to sound cliché, but really there's only so many ways I can say 'you're either with us or against us.'"

Stiles frowned at her. "Did you know what you were getting into? Because trust me, it may seem all awesome superpowers and animal magnetism or whatever the fuck you want to call it, but there's a whole lot of shit that comes with it. And most of it is pretty fucking awful," He said. There were already enough people involved in their shit. Who the fuck did Derek think he was, dragging more innocent people into it? Like that turned out so fucking well last time.

Erica smirked at him and leaned back. "Don't worry about me, Stiles. I know exactly what I'm doing."

_"No you don't,"_ he didn't say.

"We'll be seeing you," she tacked on creepily when it became clear he wasn't going to respond. 

"Oh, and you might want to check your locker. I think someone's left you a love note." She threw over her shoulder as she slinked off into the crowd. Stiles groaned and lightly thumped his head against the locker a few times before resigning himself to open it.

He rummaged around in the textbooks and crumpled papers before he found it, a clean, thick envelope that had nothing written on it. He quickly slit it open with a pencil and pulled out a sheaf of parchment papers, well worn but obviously cared for. They were crsiply folded and covered in weird symbols, only a few of which seemed vaguely recognizable, and even then possibly as runes from some video game he had played before. Stiles was ready to put it on the back burner and be hopeful that someone had paid him enough attention to go through the effort of becoming his creepy stalker, when he opened unfolded the papers and noticed that the first page was written in latin. He skimmed it as his brain tried to pick out the few words he knew from his brief attempt to learn latin in the third grade, and began to recognize a few things. Specifically, words like  _sanguinem_ and  _sacrificium_ and  _mancipium_ , the last of which he didn't quite remember but if "emanicpate" meant to free something, he was pretty sure it wasn't a  _good_ thing. Yeah. This was probably going to end badly.

* * *

 "So, it's like some voodoo, devil worship, Wicca thing?" 

Stiles resisted the urge to smack Scott upside the head. That boy needed all the brain cells he had left. "Those are literally three completely different things that have nothing to do with each other. And no. None of those." 

They were eating lunch in the courtyard at school. Stiles had seriously considered threatening to throw up in calculus to get out of the rest of his classes, but in the end it wasn't worth it. Scott pretty much served as his hall pass to talk about anything supernatural, with anyone supernatural. Without Scott around, Stiles mostly just tended to get weird looks from the various creatures of the night he was acquainted with. Which was sort of understandable, but still. That had to be some form of racism. Speciesism? Whatever, either way it was uncool.

"Doesn't Dr. Deaton know about this kind of stuff? Why don't we just ask him?" Stiles shoved a baby carrot into Scott's ear and ignored the disgusted squeal it earned him.

"Dude. I  _literally_ just said that less than two minutes ago. And you know I don't use 'literally' lightly," Stiles scolded, gesticulating with a new carrot. "What is up with you? You have an even shorter attention span than usual." 

Scott swatted the carrot away with a frown. "I think Allison's ignoring me," he said. 

"Oh, for the love of --" Stiles groaned. "Well, apparently crazy runs in the family, so it's not like it's actually a huge loss or anything," he tried to reassure Scott. "Besides, this is like your guys's schtick, right? The whole Romeo and Juliet bullshit? I think you're good until one of you kicks it. And we've got more important things to worry about right now, remember? The whole crazy telepaths, Derek trying to take over the world, possible human sacrifice crisis thing?"

"Right, right," Scott nodded. "Human sacrifice, got it. She's probably just busy. Or lost her phone. Or something." Scott said as he gave his phone one last forlorn glance before putting it back in his bag. "Okay. Focused now. So, Deaton?" 

"Yes. Deaton," Stiles agreed, shoving his lunch aside and pulling the papers out of his bag to spread them on the table. "I honestly have no idea what his specialty is, beyond the universal doctor thing, but he probably knows at least a bit more latin than I do, being a vet and all. I tried running some of this through a translator earlier but it's not all latin, and there seems to be a lot of technical jargon or something. A lot of it just didn't translate." He shuffled the pages a bit as Scott watched over his shoulder and pulled their backpacks closer to shield the papers from view. 

"Pretty much the stuff that  _did_ translate all sounded pretty cult-ish. Like, 'invoke the Lord of Elysium,' and 'the blood of sagely virgins,' and shit like that. And then there's this," Stiles found the page he was looking for and flipped it over to reveal the diagram that had caught his eye earlier. It didn't seem too complex, but it was also lined with more runes, none of which he had managed to track down to any known runic language so far (including the one in Dragon Age. And Skyrim. He was scraping the bottom of the barrel here).

Scott leaned it to look it over. "What about that? What's that?" He pointed to the symbol sketched beneath the larger array that took over the top half of the page. "It looks like a tent. And it says 'Argentum.'" They exchanged a glance.

The bell rang and Stiles began gathering the papers and folding them back into the envelope they had come in. "Maybe this isn't a threat," He muttered to Scott as they chucked their trash in the bin. "I mean, why would someone give us a coded message? Isn't it more like, a hint?"

"I don't know." Scott shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "What would we need something like this for anyway?" 

Stiles patted him on the back. "They're called hunters for a reason, buddy. And let's face it, you can't be the worst thing that's out there. There's got to be at least one group of pissed off creepy crawlies looking for revenge."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I'm ending it there because I wanted to post this today. I'll probably update again soon. 
> 
> They're wrong, of course. Argentum is silver. It's completely unrelated. But they don't know that yet.
> 
> Let me know if there is anything unclear or any misakes. Even just questions about my questionable plot.


End file.
